Found
by Upside-Up
Summary: Wrote a second chapter! I've been reading a lot of angst lately so I'm fluffing things up a bit to make me feel better. I think there will be at least two more chapters coming!
1. Chapter 1

"You look lost."

The words are matter-of-fact and he eyes the speaker suspiciously. She's pretty, he supposes. Long legs and long hair, a thin frame and big, brown eyes; he'd have taken her home in a life before now. He'd have lied to her and smiled and winked and forgotten her name the second it left her lips. Now, he just scoffs and sips his scotch.

"You could say that," he says more to the glass than to her. His eyes ache.

"Broken heart?" She sits down on the creaky stool beside his and leans her elbows on the bar. She gestures through the smoky din for a drink as he smiles wryly. It hurts his face.

"You could say that, too."

She doesn't look at him but scans the glass shelves of assorted alcohol with her eyes. She taps her neatly trimmed nails on the scratched wood of the bar until her beer comes, frothy and cold. He feels like crying, but he's beyond that.

"She leave you?" She's talking to a chip in her nail but he assumes the question is directed at him. He scoffs again and it feels like gagging.

Draining his glass, he signals the bartender for another; a fourth. He rubs his eye with the heel of his hand. "No."

The woman stays silent and he wonders how people can do that; how people can really want to know other people's pain. She sips her beer and his insides twist. It wouldn't kill him to share a little. God knows he hasn't talked about it, hasn't seen anyone since it happened.

He sighs as the bartender exchanges his empty tumbler for one with three fingers of brown liquid. He swallows the lump in his throat that is tugging at him, reminding him that he's weak and says "I never had her to begin with."

He chances a glance at the woman beside him. Her eyes are cast down and he can't help but think that she's familiar with this kind of hurt. Her long eyelashes brush her cheeks for a moment. She nods.

"I didn't deserve her anyway," he attempts a dismissive tone but it comes out pathetic and sad.

"She know you love her this way?"

He notes a ghost of a southern drawl in her tone and for once his mind doesn't alphabetize the states or remind him of the fact that he's only missing Alabama on his list of conquests.

He nods and that lump isn't fading and his eyes feel hot and scratchy. He takes a long, shaky breath but doesn't feel any more stable. The alcohol isn't numbing him like it should and this woman _knows_ him somehow.

"Got shot down, huh?"

He continues to nod and stares at his lap as unbidden tears escape his tired blue eyes. He wants to run as far away as possible, but he feels glued to his seat; to his empty, lonely life. He misses his friends. He misses _her_. His chest tightens and he doesn't bother to stop the tears dripping from his nose onto the wrinkled fabric of his suit.

"So end of story, huh? Loved and lost. What's the plan now?"

She's direct but gentle and he shrugs his shoulders. They feel heavier than he remembers. This woman reminds him of someone he can't quite place and he doesn't care enough to try. Her voice is gravelly and soft.

"You could always give it another shot," she says, and it's honest, not patronizing. He wipes his eyes and looks at her. She's still watching the glass shelves and he rolls his glass between his palms with dexterity brought on by years of sleight of hand.

There's a long pause before she drains her pint and turns to face him, her brown eyes stunning him somewhat. "Hell, what have you got to lose?"

She reaches over and squeezes his bare wrist below his turned-up sleeve. His skin tingles where she'd touched him as she walks out the door and he watches her. In another life he would have been leaving with her, seeing if she made him tingle anywhere else.

Now, though, he abandons his fourth drink, leaving neatly folded bills on the bar, and straightens himself up. He buttons his cuffs and slips his jacket on, loosening his tie and folding it into his pocket. In his head rings the answer to the woman's question: _nothing. I've got nothing left to lose. _

He swallows hard as he leaves the bar, walking out into the world to try one more time.


	2. Chapter 2

The cab smells terrible but he hardly notices; doesn't bother to read the tariff card and learn the driver's name. He barely hears himself spit out the address as he folds himself in. The streets fly by, a blur of dirty browns and greys, the street lights hurting his eyes and his heart beating like it's trying to escape his ribcage. He tells himself it's because of the speed with which the cab whips through the city. His city.

As the driver weaves through familiar neighbourhoods he tries to calm himself. _I've got nothing to lose._ He repeats this in his head like it's a mantra but it doesn't calm him. His heart is beating so hard it almost hurts. He feels a pinprick of annoyance at this under the blanket of fear. Of course he can't just seem relaxed. Not when it's her. Not when he hasn't seen her for four days and that somehow translates into a real, physical ache. He can't play any of it off as a joke; not this time.

Because his first confession had been so raw, so honest and real, that she knows it wasn't a _joke_. She knows he meant every word that had stumbled from his lips that night. Just as he knows she meant her tearful apology and the rejection that accompanied it. He rubs his eyes as the cab pulls up in front of what used to be one of his favourite places. He knows that they're swollen and red and that he smells like a distillery and that his suit is in a sorry state, but he pays the cabbie, what's-his-name, and steps out into the night.

He knows he should take a moment to collect himself; that he should put on his tie and try to smooth some of the wrinkles from his shirt, but he can't. His feet are taking the steps they've taken so many times two at once. He could find his way to her with his eyes closed. He ignores the elevator, feeling the stairs pound under his scuffed Italian shoes. He's bursting through the door to her apartment before he can even register that he's on the right floor and it's then that it hits him. He's really about to do this. He stands, frozen for a moment, until the unmistakable voice of his best friend sounds and scares the living hell out of him.

"Barney?"

Barney spins to face him, his eyes wide and his face pale. Ted emerges from the kitchen looking tired and upset.

"Dude, where the hell have you been? It's been four days and nobody's heard anything! Are you okay?" Barney still hasn't moved and Ted walks over to him, his face betraying just how worried he was; how worried he still is. He places one hand on the other man's shoulder and the other firmly on the side of his neck and Barney finally focuses on him.

Ted takes in Barney's red, bloodshot eyes, his rumpled suit, his pale complexion and shaking hands. "Barney," he tries again, "are you alright?"

His friend swallows hard and shakes his head so slightly that Ted barely notices the movement. "Where is she?"

Ted lets his hands drop from Barney and puts them in his pockets, sighs, "She's in her room. She hasn't left the apartment since you were here last." He thinks he notices a slight shift in his friend; his face tightens and his hands fiddle with the hem of his jacket.

Barney manages a glance in the direction of Robin's door and his chest feels like it's melting into his stomach. He can feel any colour left in his face drain away. He looks back at Ted, his very best friend, and he's nodding before Barney can ask the question.

"You should go talk to her, man. She's a mess."

It's all Barney needs to hear before he musters up the little remaining courage left after the agonizing trip that brought him outside her door. He places his thumb and index fingers on his eyelids and rubs for a moment before mumbling an almost inaudible "fuck" and striding to her door.


End file.
